


The Volunteer

by myinfinitenutshell



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myinfinitenutshell/pseuds/myinfinitenutshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumbelle Secret Santa prompt for asterixgazer: Rumple volunteers at local library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Volunteer

Mr. Gold had a plan. He always had a plan.

He would walk into the library and find the new librarian. When he asked her for the month’s rent, he would be as gruff and stern as possible so she’d learn straightaway that he was the one in power, that he couldn’t be manipulated, that he wasn’t to be screwed over or taken lightly. He would establish from the start that he was a businessman, not a philanthropist. And he would be hard and severe, unsmiling and exacting because it was the most honest thing to do. He wouldn’t be one of those swindling cheats who duped his customers into a false sense of security with PR-gleaming grins and cunning words only to repossess their cars and homes when they fell short. He would be upfront. Reliable. His customers would know him from beginning to end. And—just as bad in Gold’s mind—he wouldn’t be the sort of weak man who coddled his customers, who pitied them and found himself bending contractual obligations all because of a teary excuse or plea. ‘I lost my job.’ (Like Mr. Tillman, just last month.) ‘My wife is sick.’ (Robin, last week.) ‘I need to get back on my feet.’ (Leroy.) ‘Just one more month—please. Just one. I promise to have the money then.’ (Too many, too many times.) Gold had heard them all. But he knew, he _knew_ , that if he said ‘yes’ once, he’d have lost his reliability in that split second. His fairness. One ‘yes’ would lead to more, which would lead to gray areas where he’d have to forgive one man’s debt but not another’s to stay afloat. The integrity of the contract would be dissolved by personal connections and favors. That was no way to run a business, especially when you held a monopoly over the town’s land and resources.

And so he’d accept the town’s cries of ‘beast!’ and ‘you pitiless monster!’, accept the isolation and (dare he admit?) the loneliness because then every man and woman who stepped into his shop would know what he or she was getting into. And he’d be hard with the new librarian whom he’d not gotten a chance to meet yet because it was honest. That was all. Truly. There was no mask. It was who he was. It was who he needed to be.

At least that’s what Mr. Gold told himself.

Locking the pawnshop behind him, Mr. Gold gripped the golden handle of his cane in his black glove and limped in the direction of the library. It was unseasonably cold for early October. His breath hung in the darkening air in a misty gray cloud, and he had to pick his way with caution over the spaces of sidewalk that had already started to ice over. It wouldn’t do to twist his already damaged ankle. Or to fall in front of the town’s hostile eyes, however much they’d love to see him brought low and vulnerable like that.

When he was a half block away from the library, he passed the Nolan’s white minivan, parked on the other side of the road. While he was well aware that neither David nor his wife Mary Margaret particularly liked him, and while he thought David an imbecile and Mary Margaret a sickly sweet, overly idealistic nun in disguise, Mr. Gold had a rugged admiration for the couple. They were two of the only people in town willing to stand up to her Majesty, the madam mayor Regina Mills. People despised and dreaded Gold and were open about their emotions. With Regina, though, all was fake cordiality. She got things done, there was no doubt about it. But she was a cold viper, and the people cowered before her regal mayoral throne. Not the Nolans, though, and certainly not Gold. And for that, he respected them.

Then there was their adopted daughter, Emma. A little spitfire if he’d ever seen one. Mr. Gold had to suppress a smile as Mrs. Nolan opened the sliding door and the five-year-old girl exploded out of the minivan, braided pigtails streaming behind her like the tail of a comet.

“Not in the road, Emma!” Mary Margaret yelled as the girl dodged her mother’s arm.

A red car speeding by honked loudly as Emma got too close, and the girl would have roused the honking complaint of another car if it weren’t for David’s strong hand latching onto her arm and directing her to the safety of the sidewalk with urgent words about how dangerous that was. Emma crossed her arms in her little red jacket with a cool expression that Mr. Gold could only think very highly of.

With Emma now safe, Mary Margaret returned her attention to the minivan. “Come on, Neal.”

As another child slipped out of the belly of the minivan, Mr. Gold wondered if the Nolans had welcomed a new orphan into their home. Mr. Gold frowned. He prided himself on knowing that sort of information. He’d have to check with his man, Dove, later.

But that was all Mr. Gold thought. For as soon as the boy stood on the street and turned, Mr. Gold froze. Pale white, delicate skin. Small ears and chin, fingers and nose. Brown tousled curls and chocolate brown eyes with the kind of melancholy in them that no six-year-old child should know. Those eyes were watching him and Gold’s chest was aching, screaming and banging.

“Mr. Gold?”

He blinked. Looked to Mary Margaret’s questioning face then back to the boy. This time he searched for differences. Yes. Yes. This boy was taller. His hair was less curly. This wasn’t his Bae. Not his Bae…

“Mr. Gold?” Mary Margaret asked again, and Mr. Gold tore his eyes away from the not-Bae child.

“Mrs. Nolan,” he said, immediately snapping to his usual bearing. Somewhat lazy stance, leaning to the right on his cane, a small smirk of a smile at his lips, and eyes impossible to read. “New boy?” He gestured to the boy (not Bae!) with the tip of his cane.

Any other mother in this city would have shoved her child behind her and pulled out her fangs and claws to fight the town beast. Mary Margaret did not. Nor did she favor Mr. Gold with her usual overabundant warmth either, though.

“Yes. This is Neal. He’ll be living with us for a little while.”

She reached down to grab Neal’s little hand, and Mr. Gold could catch the faintest flinch in the child’s eyes at the touch. Mr. Gold clenched his jaw. He had the sudden desire to find out who had made this wee child ( _not_ Bae!) so hunted and haunted, and break every bone in that person’s body.

“Can you say ‘hi’ to Mr. Gold, Neal?” Mary Margaret asked, bending down next to the boy.

Neal said nothing. He just stared at Mr. Gold and Mr. Gold stared back. Mr. Gold was the one to break.

“I, uh, have business to attend to, Mrs. Nolan.” Mr. Gold glanced at David. “Mr. Nolan.”

And without yielding to his sudden itching need to look at the boy (NOT Bae!) once more, Mr. Gold spun on his heel and continued to the library, leaning on his cane more heavily than before.

_Brown, melancholy eyes._

Mr. Gold had a plan, yes.

_Curly hair soft as down._

He had to be hard. The monster of Storybrooke.

_The screech of tires—_

Merciless. Honest.

_—the ringing of an ambulance—_

Mr. Gold shook his head violently and ripped the library door open.

Chaos. Instant chaos. He froze in the doorway as most of Storybrooke’s children ran and squealed about in the open section of the library designed for kids, parents chatting near the bookshelves or chasing their rambunctious offspring down. Then the door opened behind him, and little Emma with her pigtails swept past to do her best to add to the anarchy. Mr. Gold stepped back and managed a curt nod to Mary Margaret and David who had just entered the library, keeping his eyes at adult-level, not child-, not at the little boy standing several inches away from Mary Margaret’s side.

_—“Daddy!”—_

Mr. Gold had to escape. He couldn’t breathe. The Nolans were blocking the door as Mary Margaret started chatting with Ariel Fisher, so he continued further into the library. A piece of paper was pressed into his hands by someone standing by the door. He ignored it. Several people bumped into him and would start to apologize before realizing who it was, after which they’d back away with anxious expressions. He ignored them as well. Even his mind that usually paired each face with a chart of financials was empty. He was—he was—

“Oomph!”

He’d rammed right into something soft.

“Whoa!” A winded giggle. “You knocked the breath right out of me!”

And Australian.

He blinked and took a small step back, eyes focusing on beautiful blue sea and rolling chestnut brown.

“I—I—”

“Oh!” The woman looked down, and Mr. Gold saw that he was holding out in two hands the piece of paper the person at the door had given him. “You’ve come to volunteer? You’re a lifesaver!”

She ducked up to give his cheek a quick kiss before grabbing his arm and steering him toward the front desk.

Was he in shock? Was this what shock felt like? The strange woman—the strange woman who, if it weren’t for the tingle on his cheek, he’d sooner believe had not kissed him than had—was speaking again and Mr. Gold had to wade through the pressing atmosphere to piece together her words into something resembling meaning.

“Would you mind so terribly starting tonight? Archie was going to help me out but then Pongo got sick and I’ve got no one to watch the front desk tonight since it’s Razzle Dazzle Evening Read. So—” she practically shoved him into the chair and leaned over his shoulder, pointing at a stack of forms on the desk “—it’s very easy. All you have to do is write down each person’s name, their ID number which you can find under the barcode on their library cards, and then write down the name of the book and its call number. After I’m done reading with the kids, I’ll input everything into the computer, so you don’t have to worry about any of that. Just man the station. Any questions?”

She smiled widely and before he could think of what to say, a young lady with long black hair streaked with flaming red—Ruby, his brain dimly supplied—danced up to the blue-eyed Australian wonder.

“Belle, the kids are tearing the place apart! We have to get started!” Ruby said.

“Oh, right!” the woman—Belle, apparently—whipped back to Mr. Gold, and he could catch the moment that Ruby saw him because her eyes widened in first surprise then suspicion. Belle had her back to Ruby, though, and went right on. “So remember: name, ID number, book title, call number. That’s it!”

He nearly leapt out of his seat when she lunged forward and curled herself around his shoulder to grab something behind him, her hand gripping his arm to stabilize herself.

“Almost forgot!” she spoke before pulling away fully, her voice loud in his ear.

She was holding a pointed blue magician’s cap with silver streamers and sequins glued to the surface. Clearing her throat importantly, she put the hat on and posed with a mock dignified expression.

“How do I look?” she asked.

She was rather petite for a grown woman. Her small feet were elevated on frighteningly high heels, buying her a few inches, and her brown pleated dress hung modestly yet attractively from her form. More arresting was the way that her red lips were pursed as she tried (yet failed) to restrain the smile that seemed ever to grace her countenance, and the way that her rich brown curls fell to either side, shaping her round face rather prettily. And then those eyes, dancing and sparkling even brighter than the silver sequins, like there was some huge joke that only she knew and only her eyes could tell. The blue of the cap brought out the color of her eyes even more sharply. She was, in one word—

“Beautiful.”

 _Yes_ , Mr. Gold thought as his lips formed that one word and his lungs provided the air for its existence, all without his say-so. _Yes. I must be in shock._

The smile broke free unhampered, lighting up her face, and Mr. Gold decided that maybe he’d died and she was an angel and that boy he’d seen on the streets, the boy that was now somewhere in this room, was actually Bae, not Neal, but Bae, _his_ Bae…

“Uh, Belle?”Ruby tentatively asked.

“Yes! The children!” There was a slight blush on Belle’s cheeks as she ran a hand nervously through her brown curls. “Right. So. No questions? Everything good?”

He felt himself nod.

“Great! Thank you so much again. I don’t know what I’d do without you! See you in a bit!” She started to run off on her skyscraper heels then spun back around, letting her feet continue to carry her backwards and somehow avoiding the children rushing about. “I don’t even know your name!”

When he paused too long, Ruby leaned into Belle’s shoulder and whispered something. Belle immediately stopped where she was.

“Oh.” Some of the twinkle, some of the grace faded. “Right.” She bit her lower lip. “You weren’t really here to volunteer, were you?”

And then the children were singing some sort of silly welcoming song. And Ruby was dragging Belle away toward the head of the circle the kids had formed on the floor. And Belle held his gaze for as long as she could before she had to look away to greet all the kids. And her face and eyes and everything was just as bright and happy as before. And Belle was singing along with them, a new song, something about ‘ol’ Rumply Rumple, razzle dazzle doo.’ And as they sang, Ruby passed out small magician’s caps to everyone, even the adults. And the children clapped their hands with glee, and the especially young ones’ eyes were glued to Belle’s magician hat. And there was Neal, in the back, hat in his lap, face blank…

_The casket was small._

Mr. Gold closed his eyes, pressed his hands against the desk, tried to block everything out, the singing, the giggling, the voices, the memories.

_His boy._

Gold burned with the need to leave the place.

_I’m sorry Bae! I’m sorry!_

Then silence.

The silence was so sudden, so different from the chaos of before, that Mr. Gold’s eyes snapped open to fall on a certain blue-eyed Australian who had charmed the entire room of hoodlums to silence by the force of a single finger held to her lips.

“It looks like the Silencing Spell worked!” she whispered, and one of the kids giggled. Belle pointed at the offending child with mock seriousness for a moment before giggling as well, tickling him in the ribs. “Thank you, my little magicians. Now who’s ready for a story?”

She started to read. And Mr. Gold was entranced. He listened to every dip and cadence of her voice, to every flourish of her hand, to every funny face and pause that had the kids jittery with excitement for the next word, the next part of the tale.

“Can I check this out?” someone whispered to his left.

Irritated by the distraction, Mr. Gold glanced up and saw someone anxiously holding out a book toward him. There were three more people standing behind him with equally uncertain expressions, and Mr. Gold wondered how long it had taken the man to build up the courage to interrupt him, the beast of Storybrooke, who was, for some unknown reason, manning the library’s check-out desk.

Mr. Gold turned his attention back to Belle with a firm “No.”

That and a few pointed glares were all it took for him and his stack of blank check-out forms to be left alone with Belle’s voice for the rest of the evening.

The Razzle Dazzle Evening Read ended with another song as Ruby went around to pick the magician’s caps back up. Mr. Gold stood and waited for Belle with both hands resting in front of him on his cane, the picture of authority, of austerity. Maybe he could still salvage some of his plan even if it had gone completely south before he’d even set foot in the library.

He should have just given up altogether.

For, as soon as Belle reached the front desk, giving him a shy smile which he did not return, he only had time for a solemn “I have some business to discuss with you” before a huge line of patrons scampered out from between the shelves where they’d been waiting to form a line for check-out—all the patrons Mr. Gold had bluntly refused to serve.

“I’ll be with you shortly, Mr. Gold,” Belle said, twirling in her blue magician’s cap to help Storybrooke’s population of readers.

Mr. Gold opened his mouth to argue but no words formed. And so, tapping his cane against the floor three times, he made his way to a small side table away from all the hustle and bustle of parents corralling children, children scampering this way and that, and patrons being greeted by the Australian’s cheerful ‘hello’s and sincere ‘how are you?’s. From where he was sitting, just barely in view of the front desk, he caught her sighing with concern at some lady’s pitiful story, resting a hand on another’s with a heartfelt ‘get feeling better,’ and brightly proclaiming the merits of some such book a young girl was checking out.

“Well if you liked the first book, just wait until you read this one,” Belle said then, lowering her voice, added, “You’ll learn what actually happened to you know who.”

She waggled her brows and the young girl tripped off, excitedly showing her book to her mother.

Finally, the line was gone. With a sigh, Belle collapsed into the rolling seat and twirled around, looking up at the ceiling as the silver strands glued to her magician’s cap circled about her in the air. Mr. Gold was, once again, enchanted.

What was bloody well wrong with him today?

Indulging for only a half second more, he got up and approached the spinning magician angel. He leaned on the counter and waited, a smirk slowly pulling at his lips as Belle, completely oblivious, continued to spin and spin. Eventually, she put her arm over her eyes and muttered, “Stupid! Stupid!”

He cleared his throat and she jumped.

“Oh, Mr. Gold!” Another blush. “I thought you’d already gone.”

“Still here, dearie.”

“Yes, clearly. Um.” She tried to stand up but one of the silver strands had gotten caught on the chair leg and her head jerked back, pulling the hat askew. “Oh. Ow.”

“Need some help there?” Mr. Gold asked, trying to contain the smirk steadily growing on his face.

 _Remember the plan_ , he intoned to himself. _The plan. Be hard. Be the monster_.

“Nope. I think I—” She managed to get the cap off and untangled, and she set it on the back table, turning toward him with a face an even brighter shade of red than before. She grinned with embarrassment. “There. Un-magician-ified and ready for business, sir.”

He quirked a brow.

“But before you get going,” she quickly added when he opened his mouth, “I apologize for forcing you into manning the station. I didn’t know who you were and when you gave me this—” she handed him the paper he’d inadvertently extended to her earlier “—I thought you were volunteering.”

He glanced down at the paper for the first time that evening. Across the top in big block letters were the words VOLUNTEER FOR THE LIBRARY! It asked for pertinent contact information, hours of availability, and other such information. He folded it away into his pocket.

“And I was so desperate for help that I just assumed you were here to volunteer without double checking that you actually were. But I’m so grateful for your help, and I don’t know what I’d do without you having been here, what with Archie’s dog being sick and—”

Mr. Gold raised a hand and Belle immediately cut off. “I’m here for the rent,” he simply said.

 _Yes_ , he thought. _Keep it simple. Severe._

She turned a paler shade. “Ah. Yes. The rent. I was hoping you’d come tomorrow. Not today?” The end of her sentence grew quieter and lifted in tone as though in a question.

Mr. Gold clenched his teeth. “Ms.—”

“French. Belle French. But you can call me Belle.”

“Ms. French.” He smiled—the smile that wasn’t really a smile and set his delinquent customers on edge. “As is stipulated in the lease agreement you should have signed when taking over as head librarian, the total rent is collected in cash by me personally on the first Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday of every month. Today is October 2nd.”

She bit her lower lip. “That would be the first Thursday of this month,” she said in a quiet voice.

His grin widened. “How very astute of you, dearie.”

“Listen, I really do apologize and I promise you I’m not normally a flake, but—”

“Do you or do you not have the rent?” Mr. Gold asked, voice lowering.

“The money, yes. In cash here, no.”

“Ms. French, that amounts to a breaking of the—”

“Mr. Gold.” She squared her shoulders and looked at him directly. “First of all, collecting all of your rent in person in cash? Really? In this day and age?” Her arched brow made him feel suddenly self-conscious and he had just opened his mouth to protest and defend the honor of hard cold cash when she continued with a shake of her head. “But that’s beside the point. The fact of the matter is that I’ve been on the phone with the mayor’s office every day for the past three weeks trying to get the liquid funds for the library worked out so that I can actually run this place. But they’ve been stonewalling me to the point that I can’t hire anyone, I’m the only one here which means I’m reshelving books until midnight every day and barely have a chance to eat much less pee—”

Mr. Gold’s eyes widened and he lifted a hand to stop her eruption but she continued, standing to get right up in front of him.

“—and I’ve been dipping into my own savings account to keep this place floating since I started work last month. And I haven’t even received a paycheck since I got here because the mayor says I keep telling her the wrong electronic-deposit information, or that I’m missing this or that verification, and I thought when I’d come to work here that yes, maybe the selection of books would be lacking, and yes, maybe the town is a bit small, but certainly—surely!—I’d have the resources I need to do the best bloody job I can do. But instead I have no money, and you—”

Here, she poked him in the chest.

“—you demand cash like some sort of medieval lord instead of accepting an electronic wire like any normal businessman would do. So no, master, I don’t have your money. And until the mayor’s office starts behaving like one, you aren’t getting your money. Okay?”

Mr. Gold was silent. Stunned into silence, more like. The fiery Australian was right in his face, her cheeks flushed with anger and now, again, embarrassed uncertainty, and he was completely speechless. There was a hollow thump to his right like the sound of a dropping book, and he turned to catch the open-mouthed look of a patron with an armful of books.

“I’ll just…come back later,” the woman muttered, slipping away and using the toe of her foot to edge the dropped book away with her.

“Oh bugger,” Belle muttered under her breath, and he turned to see her collapse into the chair, face in her hands. “I am so sorry, Mr. Gold. I don’t know what came over me. I was so looking forward to this job, but everything’s been problem after problem. It’s almost as though the mayor wants the library to close.” She laughed under her breath and peeked up at him. “Sounds crazy, right?”

Mr. Gold gripped his cane more tightly. “Not at all, dearie,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, it appears I have a visit to pay.”

And with that, he limped out of the library.

He hadn’t felt this kind of fire in his blood in a long time. It was alive. It was angry. And it was sending him straight to Regina Mills’ home, late hour be damned.

It only took him five minutes to reach her door and only twenty seconds for her Majesty to respond to his loud, incessant thumpings.

“Mr. Gold? What on earth do you think—”

“The financials for the library.”

Her dark eyes flashed. “Yes, what about them?”

“You will make sure Ms. French gets paid by midnight tonight.”

“Wait, Mr. Gold, you can’t—”

“You will release the library’s funds to her by tomorrow noon,” he continued, speaking over the mayor.

“This is none of your—”

“And you will pay a personal visit to Belle, apologize for the delay, and give her one of your delectable apple pies as a sign of your sincerity.”

“And why would I do any of that?” she hotly asked.

He smirked. “Because you really don’t want to make me your enemy.”

She opened her mouth then closed it.

“Smart move, dearie,” he said. “Wouldn’t want your face on the headlines tomorrow, now would you? You may own the newspaper, Madame Mayor, but I own this town. And I know what goes on in this town. Including your involvement in a certain land venture in North Park.”

The only sign Regina gave that he’d hit a nerve was a subtle twitch in her upper lip. Otherwise she didn’t budge. But he knew he had her. He’d been sitting on that piece of scandal for a while now, waiting for the perfect moment of blackmail.

So why was he wasting it tonight?

“Do we understand one another?” he carefully enunciated.

Regina straightened up, clinging to a final glimmer of defiance. “What does the library mean to you, anyway?”

“Do we?”

“Ah, I see,” Regina said, smugly smiling. “It’s the librarian, isn’t it?”

Mr. Gold returned her black stare with his. “By midnight tonight, dearie.”

And he sauntered away, nearly in as much surprise at the evening’s events as that felt by either Regina (who was, at that moment, making a couple of hasty calls) or Belle French (who was settling in for a late evening of reshelving books in an empty library with the image of a parting Scotsman hanging on her every, lonely thought).

xxx

The morning’s light found a tired librarian unlocking the library, eyes bleary from only three hours’ sleep and brain functioning only on the unhealthy amount of caffeine and sugar surging through her system. She never even saw the envelope on the floor until her shoe sent it skittering across the floor.

The librarian set her things down and, with confused brow, studied the envelope and the name ‘Ms. French’ written on the outside in a neat, compact script. She tore the envelope open and pulled out one of the volunteer forms. Name: Mr. Gold. Contact information: blank. Availability: every Razzle Dazzle Evening Read Night.

There was a small card slipped inside. “Ms. French,” it read. “I was unaware of the problems you were encountering. I trust that the mayor will be more forthcoming in the future. Until then, I will give you a week’s extension on this—but _only_ this—month’s rent. Please keep me appraised of any further contentions with our illustrious mayor. RG.”

And in that morning’s light, the blue-eyed librarian smiled.

xxx

“So.”

“Yes?”

“After your visit last Thursday, you’ll never guess what happened.”

“Oh?”

Belle set her magician’s cap on the table behind where Mr. Gold was sitting at the front check-out desk. It’d been a week since the last time she’d seen him, and she’d nearly worried herself sick each day trying to decide whether or not she should go to his shop to let him know that the Razzle Dazzle Evening Read happened every Thursday night. He’d said he wanted to volunteer for each one, but he hadn’t left a phone number for her to call and she hadn’t wanted to coerce him into volunteering a _second_ time. So she’d left it to fate. And, sure enough, twenty minutes before Razzle Dazzle had started tonight, one second he wasn’t there, and the next, he was, overcoat and gloves carefully folded up on the desk beside him.

She was still trying to ignore the way her heart had raced at the sight of him. And the way she’d felt his eyes on her every moment during Razzle Dazzle, leaving her flustered and on edge. Seriously. What was all that about?

And why had he wanted to volunteer in the first place? Belle hadn’t the foggiest clue. It wasn’t as though she’d been especially welcoming the last time (and first time) she’d met him. She felt herself blush at the memory of her little breakdown in front of him.

“Ms. French?” Mr. Gold prodded when she hadn’t responded.

“Could I check this out, Belle?” Mr. Hampers asked before she could say anything, and Belle turned to see that—like last week—there was suddenly a long line of patrons. Now that, she decided, was strange. Last week, she’d chalked it up to a fluke. But two weeks in a row? Directly after she’d finished with Razzle Dazzle? It’d never happened like that before.

“Do you have a few minutes to wait?” she asked Mr. Gold as she settled into her chair.

He gave her a nod, gathered his overcoat and gloves, and migrated to a side table still in view of the front desk.

She took care of the patrons as quickly as she could. When she looked up to the last, it was him, leaning on the table with that irksome smirk and gorgeous hair and slender, crooked nose and those hands…

“You were saying?” he prompted.

Belle cleared her throat. “Yes. I was saying…” What was she saying? “Oh! Last week! Right. So. Funny thing happened. When I got home that night, I had an email in my inbox with a personal message from the president of the bank here in town saying that my EFT form had been verified and that I would be receiving payment on the next business day.”

“That’s great news.”

“Yes and rather much a coincidence since banks, as far as I know, don’t do business that late. Certainly not bank presidents.”

“How very strange indeed.” His eyes glimmered. “Anything else?”

“You know what? There was. On the very next day, the mayor’s office finally handed over control of the funds to me. Which reminds me…” She pulled open a drawer and handed over a massive roll of bills. “Your rent. Thank you for the extension.”

His brow furrowed as he weighed the roll with a practiced hand. “This seems like too much, Ms. French.”

Belle rested her head on her hands in as innocent a pose as she could make it. “Nope. It’s the full amount and not a penny more. I may have asked the bank to make the payment in fives and tens, though. I had asked for the full amount in one dollar bills, but they said they didn’t have that many ones.”

She caught his lip twitch. “I see. I’m surprised you didn’t just go with a bag of bullion.”

She waved her hand flippantly. “That’d be too much of a hassle, what with the weight and all.”

“But of course.” He pocketed the cash and Belle secretly delighted to see what an unwieldy bulge it made in his jacket pocket. “And was there anything else?” he asked.

“How did you guess.” It was not a question. “I got the strangest visit from the mayor on Tuesday. She expressed her heartfelt apologies and even baked me a pie. I meant to save you a piece but I confess that I ate it. It’s the thought that counts though, right?”

“So I’ve heard.”

She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. She caught the way he almost flinched away and shelved that revelation away to consider later. What sort of man recoils at basic, human contact?

“I have a feeling,” she said, “that I have you to thank for all of that.”

“Now that would be ridiculous.”

He moved to pull back but she tightened her grip for a second longer. “Thank you,” she said.

Mr. Gold gave a small nod and she let him go.

He looked around uncomfortably for a moment then quietly, abruptly said, “Goodnight, Ms. French.” And hurried to the door.

“Goodnight!” Belle called after him.

xxx

“Mr. Gold?”

“Yes, Ms. French?”

“It’s Belle, not Ms. French. But why is it that every week you man the check-out desk, no one ever checks out a book?”

“Coincidence?”

“For four weeks straight?”

Mr. Gold cleared his throat. “I had someone check out a book today, didn’t I?”

Belle looked at the slip of paper. “But this isn’t your handwriting. Which means they checked out their own book. Care to explain, sir?”

She gestured to the long line of patrons that had gathered at the check-out desk only seconds after she’d finished with Razzle Dazzle.

“And do you care to explain why I have patrons flocking out from behind shelves as soon as I get back here?”

He cleared his throat a second time and gestured weakly. “I, uh, have somewhere I need to be now, Ms. French. Next week?”

“Mr. Gold! Mr. Gold!”

He was gone.

xxx

Belle was waiting for him at the door the Thursday after that. She had her arms crossed.

“You’re fired.”

He felt a moment’s panic. “What?”

“You’re fired.”

And then the panic disappeared. Why should he be panicked? Bah! By this slip of a girl? He put on his menacing face and stalked toward her. “I haven’t been fired in over three decades. You weren’t even born then.”

She held out her hand and pushed him back. “Well then. It’s a good time to start. Read my lips, Mr. Gold: you’re fired.”

The panic was flaring up again even as a small voice inside his head said he could watch her lips all day. If he didn’t have this Razzle Dazzle Thursday night thing, he’d have nothing with Belle. It was the only excuse he could think of to keep seeing her beyond his monthly rent collection. And why did the thought of not seeing her again dig so painfully into his chest?

He tried derision. “So I’m being fired. From volunteering.”

“No, from manning the front desk. You’re making my job harder, not easier. Why does no one ever check out books when you’re there? Why do they wait until I show up?”

How was he supposed to answer that? That people didn’t like him? That they feared him? That he was the town monster and shouldn’t want to spend Thursday evenings with a beautiful blue-eyed Australian lass? That he didn’t deserve that?

Or was he supposed to admit that he’d sent enough patrons away during the first two weeks of volunteer work with his infamous glare that now they didn’t dare step up to the check-out desk when he was there?

Mr. Gold chose not to answer at all. “Who’s going to man the desk?” He tried to keep the pleading tone from his voice.

“Gretel. She is my paid assistant after all.”

“Oh. Well.” He felt hollow. “Good evening then, Ms. French.”

He had started to turn away when she grabbed his arm and started to drag him toward the front desk like she’d done the first time he met her. “Oh no,” she said. “You don’t get off that easily.”

She stopped him in front of one of those book trolleys. It was overflowing with books that needed to be reshelved.

“Your new volunteer job. That is—” she glanced at his cane “—if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

He appreciated her subtlety, for not outright calling him a gimp and doubting his abilities outright. And while he knew it would not be the easiest job in the world, if it meant he could still be here, he’d do anything.

“Of course it won’t be too much trouble.”

She brightened. “Excellent. Catch you after Razzle Dazzle?”

She wanted to see him afterwards. Just like before.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

xxx

A week later, Belle caught Mr. Gold staring at Neal, the boy living with the Nolans, with a wistful expression. She’d seen him look at the boy like that many times before. It was like, in those moments, his mask was gone and she saw something deeper, truer, and, she hated to admit, sadder than the face he showed Storybrooke. She knew Mr. Gold had a past, a life before Storybrooke. And she could see that past sometimes, written in the hard lines on his face, in the limp of his leg, in the armor he wore nearly every minute, in the way he sometimes flinched whenever she touched him, and—most of all—in those deep, brown eyes of his, so dark at times, so pained.

“Cute boy, isn’t he?” she asked.

At her soft words, he jerked his eyes away from the departing Nolan family. “Pardon me, Ms. French. What was that?”

“Neal. He’s a cute boy.”

Mr. Gold stood to put on his coat and gloves which sent an aching splinter through Belle’s heart. Mr. Gold usually stayed to chat for at least a little while.

“Yes. He is a…cute boy.”

“Are you heading out so soon?” Belle asked.

He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “I have a bit of work to finish up tonight.”

He had started to move toward the door when he paused and turned halfway back to her, his hair concealing the expression on his face.

“Do you know Neal’s background?”

She didn’t want Gold’s hair separating them. There were already enough layers as it was. So she stood up, rounded the check-out counter, and stood directly in front of Mr. Gold, bending her head down to catch his lowered eyes.

“Hey,” she softly said with an even softer smile. “You there?”

His eyes darted up to meet hers.

“Better.” She smiled again. Then shook her head. “No, I don’t know much. Only that he’s come from a pretty broken home and that the Nolans are having difficulties helping him to—” she searched for the right word “—to connect. It worries Mary Margaret. Emma is the only one he will talk to, and even then, it’s not much.”

Mr. Gold nodded, opened his mouth, closed it, clenched his jaw, tapped his cane twice. “Goodnight Ms. French.”

“Goodnight Mr. Gold.”

And he left.

Belle couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d almost told her something—something that mattered.

She watched him depart, watched his limping gait until he passed out of sight. Then she sighed and turned back to work.

xxx

Belle wasn’t there. She was always there. Instead, Ruby was wearing the magician’s cap with the silver streamers and silver sequins. She was wearing Belle’s hat. And it was all wrong.

“Where’s Belle?” he demanded of Gretel at the front desk.

“She’s been really sick. She hasn’t—”

He left without listening to another word. He knew where Belle lived. He knew where everyone lived. So it was no surprise that his feet carried him to the small, studio apartments three blocks away from the library. And it was no surprise that he found himself pausing outside her door for long, still minutes in the brutal cold, every fiber in his being wanting to knock but something pulling him back each time he raised his hand. And it was no surprise that he left that night, door unknocked, Belle unseen, and a sleepless night of tossing and turning lying in wait for him at his dark house.

What was a surprise was that Belle—red-nosed and sore-throated—saw him that night from her curtains, saw him standing there, deliberating, and, finally, leaving. Her heart had been pounding the whole time, and it had deflated when he slinked away with slumped shoulders. She had wanted to open the door. She had needed to. But something had told her she needed to let him make the first move, that she needed to give him the time to decide what this thing between them was.

Because she’d already decided for herself. She had for a while. She’d known the day he’d brought her a single long-stemmed rose, making some excuse about some old lady selling them on the corner. “If you’ll have it” had been his words. As though he wouldn’t or couldn’t believe that she would want to take it from his hands. And she’d known again when she’d offered him a cup of tea the week after that, and they found themselves chatting about books and music and art for hours that felt like minutes. And she’d known yet again today when she’d seen his face through the curtains.

She had hoped that today he had decided as well.

But apparently he still needed some more time. Belle hoped it wouldn’t be for too much longer.

xxx

Two weeks after that, it was Mr. Gold who didn’t show up for Thursday’s Razzle Dazzle Evening Read. It was the first time he’d not come for his volunteer service, and it’d been a true struggle for Belle to get through the evening. The kids seemed to sense it too. They were more restless, more interruptive, and she breathed a sigh of relief when the thing was over.

“Mr. Gold called,” Gretel informed Belle after the children had left.

“Oh?” She held her breath, thinking of all the reasons he could have stayed away. One stood out in her mind starkest of all: he’d decided he’d had enough of volunteering. He wouldn’t return. They wouldn’t share their weekly cup of tea after the library closed anymore. She’d have only his monthly rental pick-up to look forward to (which, of course, she always paid in fives and tens). The thought almost made her sick. “What’d he say?”

“He was on his way here when he fell on the ice,” she said and Belle suddenly felt even sicker as far worse possibilities coursed through her mind.

“Is he okay?”

Gretel shrugged. “He wanted you to know he was sorry for missing the evening.”

“But is he okay?”

“He didn’t say. He just apologized for not being able to come.” Gretel’s face scrunched up. “Why does he come anyway?” she asked.

“To volunteer,” Belle distantly said, fretting over what may have happened.

“But…why? He’s, well…not very nice.”

Belle wanted to explode. She wanted to wring the collective necks of Storybrooke and force them to see the man, not the mask. She wanted to yell at them to see the good—the community events he liberally sponsored, the anonymous donations so big that only Regina (who wouldn’t give a dime to a starving child) or Albert Spencer (who spent his fortunes on far less noble causes) or Mr. Gold (yes, the town’s beast) could afford, the way he talked with (not down to) children, or the way he volunteered his time (no free commodity in his life) weekly at the library, _her_ library. She wanted to make them _see_. But exploding in front of a sixteen year old and blaming her for the crimes of a community were not the way to go about it.

So Belle counted down every tick of the clock until closing time. Then she left the books to be reshelved tomorrow, locked the doors, and drove to the one house everyone in Storybrooke knew but no one had ever been inside. She parked her car and knocked on the front door.

She heard some muffled sounds on the other side of the door then his voice. “Who is it?”

“It’s Belle.”

More muffled sounds.

“Mr. Gold. Are you okay?”

She saw him, then, through the stained-glass panes, and she felt relieved to see him. The lock sounded and the door swung open.

“Ms. French. To what do I owe the pleasure of your—”

“Mr. Gold!”

He looked very sick. His skin was pale, and she’d never seen him in such a state of undress. For any other man of Storybrooke, he was still one of the most nicely dressed men in town. But for Mr. Gold? He was practically naked. His tie, vest, coat, and shoes were gone, and the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. Worse than that, there was a thin sheen of sweat over his skin.

“Mr. Gold, are you unwell?”

Stupid question. Of course the man was unwell!

He gave a wan smile. “Quite fine, Ms. French. Thank you for troubling to—”

His leg buckled and he may have fallen had Belle not rushed forward to support him.

“Mr. Gold!”

“I’m fine. Just...help me back to the couch?”

She looped his arm around her shoulder and wrapped her own arm around his waist. She noticed that he was unable to bear full weight on either of his legs. “How did you even make it to the door?”

He was silent for a moment. “I, uh, dragged myself on the floor.”

“Oh, Mr. Gold,” she moaned.

“Yeah, go ahead, pity the doubly lame man,” he muttered in a suddenly harsh voice.

“Mr. Gold, I—”

“The whole bloody universe thinks it’s a joke, too. Had to twist my good ankle, didn’t I. Leave me a bloody, worthless mess.”

“Mr. Gold—”

“Old, ugly, lame, beastly monster. Not worth the attentions of a beautiful, kind—”

While Belle was all for hearing Gold praise her, she pressed her spare hand against his mouth to shut him up and hotly said, “Mr. Gold. Stop it. You are not a monster. And you are most certainly not worthless. Or old. Or ugly. I, for one, if you must know, think you’re very, very sexy.”

Belle felt her heart suddenly race at her bold words, at the feeling of his lips under her fingers. Mr. Gold’s eyes widened with surprise then darkened. His gaze traveled between her eyes, dipped down to her mouth for the briefest of seconds, then back to her eyes, and Belle felt her stomach flutter and writhe.

“Now,” she said in a low voice, “if I move my hand, will you keep on with your nonsense? Because if you do, so help me, I will keep my hand over your mouth until kingdom come. Do you understand?”

He nodded, slow and small.

“Good.” She removed her hand and watched him wet his lips with his tongue. “Yes. Good. Um. Couch?”

She helped him to the couch. He winced as he sat down, and she helped him elevate both of his ankles.

“Thank you, Ms. French. That is all.”

“Hmm,” she said, bending down to take off his socks.

“Ms. French, what are you doing?”

She felt like crying over just how painfully swollen both of his ankles were and at the mass of scar tissue she saw on his right ankle, but just managed to squelch the urge down. The last thing she needed was for his mouth to run off again.

“Do you have some ice packs in the freezer?”

“Ms. French—”

“Do you?” she sweetly asked, and she saw the moment he caved.

“Yes. The kitchen is to the right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

He grumbled something under his breath that Belle chose to ignore.

Within ten minutes, his ankles were being iced and she’d retrieved some of his prescription pain medication from the bathroom cabinet.

And now they were just sitting in the dark—he, lying on the couch with both legs elevated, she on the seat to the left.

“So,” she finally said.

“So.”

More silence.

“Is your house really pink?”

“It’s salmon,” he said with an important sniff.

And Belle smiled.

They chatted more freely after that, talking about nothing and everything, falling silent now and again as each stared into the inky darkness. She caught him watching her a few times, her face dimly lit by the streetlights outside. And as the night grew later and his speech more slurred and more distinctly Scottish (whether because of the drugs, fatigue, or lingering pain, Belle didn’t know), he would watch her longer, more openly, more longingly. It made Belle’s heart race to think that maybe, just maybe, he cared for her like she for him. Cared for her more than as a friend.

After a longer period of silence broken by the twelve chimes of a grandfather clock hidden somewhere in the shadows, Belle sighed.

“I should go,” she said in a quiet voice.

“No!” Mr. Gold was suddenly alarmed, sitting as far upright as he could with two legs elevated. “They all go! They all leave!”

Startled by his reaction, Belle knelt down next to his couch and dared to brush the hair back from his face. He leaned into her hand, so she did it again. And again. The tension slowly drained from his face.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Okay, I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”

His eyes closed. “They never stay.” His words were nearly inaudible. “You’ll never stay.”

“I’m here.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead, lingering there, hearing his quiet, almost childish whimper. “I’m here.”

And she did stay, at least until he was fast asleep, a gentle snore with every breath. And that night in her bed, his bitter words ( _they never stay_ ) echoed in her mind, her heart, making her want to sob.

 _You’ll never stay_. _They all go._

Well, she’d just have to prove him wrong.

xxx

“Ms. French, I—”

“My name is Belle, Mr. Gold. Not Ms. French. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps I shall remember next time.”

Belle arched a brow that clearly said: Yeah right. It was, after all, exactly what he’d said the previous twenty times she’d asked him to call her by her first name.

He swallowed. Snatches of children giggling, adults chatting, and Christmas refrains filled the void between them.

“About last week,” he began, “I wanted to thank you. I think I was too out of it to really thank you properly—the medicine I took can do that to me, you see—but thank you.”

She folded her arms. “Gratitude not accepted.”

He blinked. Twice. “Excuse me?”

She smiled, that mischievous smile that turned his legs weak and his stomach into a twisting mess. “Gratitude _not_ accepted.”

“Oh.”

He was _so_ lost right now, standing next to his trolley full of books that needed to be reshelved, swathed in the chaos of the library before Razzle Dazzle began that he was still trying to get used to, with some long-dead crooner serenading a ‘silent night’ from so very long ago, and with a woman—right next to him and smiling that smile—he had fast fallen for since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. Not that he could ever do anything about it. He was, well, him. And she was _(he ran his eyes over her magician’s cap, down one of the silver streamers which was tangled with one of her curls, and over her blue lace dress and her ridiculous skyscraper heels that brought her right even to his face)_ perfect.

The light never loved the dark, much less stayed with it.

He looked at the floor. “I’ll just—” he gestured to the bookshelves and made to go but she restrained him with a hand on his arm. The touch made him want to jump away and closer all at once.

“I’ll accept your gratitude, Mr. Gold, if and only if—” she paused and he waited with bated breath “—you finally agree to call me Belle. We’ve known each other for eleven weeks now, for heaven’s sake.”

Eleven weeks. She knew exactly how long they’d known each other. Why did that small fact make his old heart thump an extra beat?

“Do we have a deal?” she asked, holding out her hand.

He slowly shook it. “Next time, Ms. French. I promise.”

She squeezed his hand, looked up at him through her lashes and bit her lower lip. “Then I accept your gratitude, Mr. Gold.”

“Robert.” The word—unspoken in so long—broke from his mouth, and he wanted to yank it back, swallow it back down.

That is, until her lips formed that word.

“Robert.” Her smile was different this time. Deeper. “Nice to meet you, Robert.”

“Belle! It’s time!” someone called from behind them, and with a hurried goodbye, his magician angel danced away.

“And you. Belle,” he whispered, watching her break into song as he slipped a hand into his coat pocket and fingered the small, wrapped gift he’d gotten her for Christmas.

He’d already come up with a plan.

This was the last Razzle Dazzle Evening Read before Christmas. Before the New Year, in fact. Since Thursday this year fell on both Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve and the library was going to be closed, Razzle Dazzle had been canceled until next year. It’d be three long weeks before he’d see Belle again. He could already see himself nursing his loneliness over the holiday with rather too much scotch, trying to chase the vision of her face away which clung so stubbornly to the surface of his mind like reflection on water.

But this was the final time he’d see her before Christmas, so he’d gotten her a gift. Which led to the plan: he’d leave her present on the front check-out desk and escape before Razzle Dazzle ended. It was cowardly, he knew, but he couldn’t bear the thought of giving her the gift in person, of seeing in her eyes the revulsion when she might guess his true feelings. So he’d leave early and go home. Alone.

With a final, searching glance at Belle singing with the kids in all their magician’s caps, he turned around and pushed the trolley forward at his broken, limping pace.

It was a short while later, after he’d made hardly any dent in his pile of books, that he found the boy hiding between History and Travel. Neal—not Bae—was sitting with his back against a shelf, arms wrapped around his scrawny knees, a magician’s hat sitting on his lap. The boy wasn’t crying, but Mr. Gold could feel the sobs.

He was frozen in that moment, suddenly seeing a very different boy, sitting in a very different place. This boy’s hair was curlier, his nose a bit more angular, hands and body smaller. He was waiting on the front steps of a grand house, waiting for a mother that never came home that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.

_Bae. She’s not coming back, Bae. Come inside._

Mr. Gold blinked the memory away and saw only Neal again, absentmindedly twirling his finger in the silver strands of the hat.

“Is that place taken?” Mr. Gold asked, gesturing to the empty space next to the boy.

Neal jumped, eyes widening and limbs prepping to run. Without waiting for the boy to speak or flee, Mr. Gold slowly, painfully, lowered himself to the ground, using his cane for support.

“There,” he said, settling himself next to the boy that was not Bae.

They sat there, in silence, not moving, not speaking, and Mr. Gold sensed the boy’s muscles gradually relax.

“Nice corner you have here,” Mr. Gold said, tapping his cane against the ground. “History and Travel. The past and the hope of something different, something new, something free. Escape.”

In the corner of his eye, Mr. Gold saw the boy’s hand twitch.

He tapped his cane a few more times then leaned forward and pulled out a big book on one man’s opinion of the one hundred sights everyone must see before they died. He opened it on his lap, flipping through the pages. Eventually, Neal looked up and, after another minute, leaned closer to Mr. Gold to see the pictures. When Neal’s arm was almost brushing Mr. Gold’s, Mr. Gold stopped on a black-and-white photo of a large circular room with a beam of pure white light splitting the air from the oculus in the ceiling.  

“The Pantheon,” Mr. Gold said, tracing a finger down the corridor of sunlight. “I went there with my boy once. Long ago.” He smiled. “My Bae was so enthralled by the light. He just stood there, bathed in it, eyes up, palms open, like he was sucking it all inside him. Letting it all seep under his skin, fill his mind and wee heart. He was so, so beautiful, my boy.” Mr. Gold was silent for a moment then he chuckled. “After we left the Pantheon, I lost sight of him for a split second, just a moment—I turned my back, and boom, he was gone.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I was a bloody mess, shouting everywhere, asking everyone, and running like I had the hounds of hell at my heels. I didn’t have this, then, you see.” He lifted his cane. “And I was scared. I was so scared I’d lost him, that I’d lost him forever and he wasn’t coming back. I could barely breathe. It felt like some black demon had reached his shadowy hand into my chest and yanked my heart out, red and beating and racing in fear, in desperation. I could feel him squeeze. The helplessness of it all. The fatality. I’d lost him and I’d lost myself in that moment too.” He swallowed. “I was dust.”

Mr. Gold stopped speaking. The only thing that could be heard was the children and Belle up front, singing ‘jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way.’

Finally, a quiet voice. “What happened?”

Mr. Gold tapped his cane twice. Smiled quick and shallow. “I found him. He’d gone back to the Pantheon. To the light.”

Neal nodded solemnly. Like that made perfect sense to him. And when Mr. Gold didn’t move, didn’t speak, Neal’s little hand reached over and turned the page. Like Mr. Gold had done, Neal traced a finger over the page, running up and over the ruins of the Roman Forum.

“Have you been here?” he asked.

“Aye, I have.”

He turned the page again. “And here?”

“Aye.”

“With your boy?”

Mr. Gold swallowed. “Not that time.”

xxx

“Merry Christmas to you too!” Belle called over her shoulder as she placed her magician’s cap on the counter by Gretel.

She pulled open a drawer and took out the blue-wrapped Christmas present she’d gotten for Mr. Gold. She couldn’t wait to give it to him. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be brave enough to drag him to the doorway with the overhanging mistletoe and she could give him the gift she really wanted to give him.

But where was Mr. Gold? It was unusual to not see him waiting for her at the front check-out desk or sitting at the side table or pretending to reshelf books on the shelves closest to the Razzle Dazzle circle, sneaking glances at her.

“Have you seen Mr. Gold?” Belle asked Gretel. “He hasn’t left has he?”

Gretel shook her head, taking a book from a patron. “I think he’s still reshelving.”

“Thanks!”

Belle gripped the gift in her hands as she searched row by row for her Mr. Gold, her _Robert_. She smiled as she remembered the name he’d given her. It’d take some getting used to (in some ways, he’d always be Mr. Gold to her, never Robert), but she’d recognized what giving his first name had meant to him. It was a sign that he was willing to let her in closer than before. It made the mistletoe a much better possibility than she’d assumed before tonight, and it made her heart flutter with anticipation.

As she neared the History section, she heard his Scottish burr, low and quiet. Curious, she slowed down and edged her head around the corner. Mr. Gold was sitting on the floor, pointing to a large book in his lap, and Neal—the Nolans’ boy—was leaning over to look, his little hand on Mr. Gold’s arm.

“It towers above you like a desert god,” Mr. Gold was saying, gesturing with his hand at the enormity of whatever he was describing. “And you feel so small, so insignificant, so _human_ before it.”

Belle craned her neck and saw that the picture they were looking at was a black-and-white photo of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

“Is it hot there?” Neal asked.

“Sweltering. And you have to ride these camels—all awkward like.” Mr. Gold made a funny pose, rigid back, upraised hand, pretending to ride a loping camel. “They’re slow and smelly and spit something awful. Just a big, hairy—” he made a disgusting squelchy sound in the back of his throat “—messy spit machine.”

Neal giggled. Mr. Gold smiled.

“What was the sand like?” Belle asked, breaking from her spot and slowly approaching the two.

Neal’s face immediately shut down and he drew back from Mr. Gold’s arm by an inch, while Mr. Gold’s own face was unreadable.

Belle folded herself down next to Mr. Gold and, in a moment of boldness, placed her hand on top of his. For a long moment, he just stared down at her hand on his, not moving, not even, as far as Belle could tell, breathing. And then, ever so cautiously, he turned his hand over, his palm to hers, and twined his fingers through hers. Belle squeezed his hand, trying to see his expression through the hair that had fallen over his face, hiding him from view. When he squeezed back and his eyes darted up to hers, she reached up and brushed his hair away from his face, her fingers grazing his cheek. Mr. Gold’s eyes closed.

“So what _was_ the sand like?” Neal asked in a quiet voice.

Mr. Gold opened his eyes, warm and brown, and Belle smiled. He smiled back.

“The sand,” he began, turning to Bae, “was hot. Hot like cement on a 100-degree day. Hot like asphalt. But loose. You’d take your shoes off and sink into it, feel a million grains of sand supporting your weight and shifting, and see them racing against one another in the scorching wind.”

Belle leaned her head against his shoulder. He paused for a moment before running his spare hand over her bare arm, and she nuzzled her nose against his neck.

“Did you get to see any mummies?” Bae asked, leaning over like before to trace the photo with his small finger.

“Not any live ones,” Mr. Gold said, resting his head on top of Belle’s. She raised her arm and laid it on his chest, feeling his beating heart race.

“What about dead ones?”

“Saw quite a few of those,” Mr. Gold said as he turned his head slightly to kiss the top of Belle’s head, digging his nose into her hair and inhaling.

“What were they like?” Neal asked, completely oblivious to the way Belle’s hand crept up to Mr. Gold’s neck.

“They were…great,” Mr. Gold managed to say.

“Neal! Neal, where are you!”

At the sound of Mary Margaret’s frantic voice several bookshelves down, Neal jumped back from Mr. Gold, and Mr. Gold from Belle. He looked down at her, and she up at him, the eyes of both filled with unspoken words and wants.

“Neal!”

Mr. Gold sighed and shifted forward to put the book back in its spot on the shelf. When he settled back again, he looked at Neal directly in the eye. “Looks like we’ve got to call it a night, scout.”

Neal nodded, and then Mary Margaret came around the corner with all the fretting of a mother hen.

“There you are, Neal! We didn’t know where you’d gone!” she said, and then she saw who was with Neal, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Mr. Gold.”

“Mrs. Nolan.” He turned back to Neal. “Up you go.”

Neal stood and started to walk to Mary Margaret, but stopped halfway, rushed back to Mr. Gold’s side, and hugged his neck. Mr. Gold was still for a moment before lifting one hand to brush the boy’s hair.

“Goodbye, Mr. Gold,” Neal whispered in his ear before pulling back.

“Goodbye, Neal.”

And then the boy—not Bae—left with a very surprised Mary Margaret.

Belle and Mr. Gold stayed where they were, on the floor, between the divide of History and Travel, past and future, listening to the Nolans’ departing footsteps and the distant singing of ‘I’ll be home for Christmas.’

At length, Belle asked in a low voice, “Neal reminds you of someone, doesn’t he?”

Mr. Gold nodded.

Belle looped her arm around his and leaned against his shoulder once more. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

He nodded again.

Three minutes later, with tears in his eyes, Mr. Gold rasped, “Bae. He reminds me of my Bae.”

Belle looked up from her place on his shoulder, and Mr. Gold looked down. Brown eyes on blue. “Would you like to tell me about him?”

He licked his dry lips. “Yes, Belle. I would.”

 


End file.
